Love is Watching Someone Die
by Nova8604
Summary: Five years on, two events in Veronica's life collide, making her question her definition of herself.


_A/N: Post series fic, it's a thought that came to me while falling asleep the other night. Based solely off a Logan quote from the end of season two. I don't own Veronica Mars; that right goes to Rob Thomas and Warner Brothers. Oh, and just to be safe, the title belongs to Detah Cab for Cutie, as a line from one of their songs. Rating is just to stay on the safe side.  
_

**Love is Watching Someone Die**

"You're not a killer, Veronica."

How long ago had Veronica stood on the roof of The Neptune Grand, holding that smoking gun in her hands? It had been a night of firsts. The first time Veronica had been tased. The first time she'd fired a gun; the second time she'd held a gun trained on another human being, but the first time on a friend.

The first time she'd ever watched someone jump to their death. The first time she realized she could stand by while someone killed themselves and not say a word.

But it wasn't the first time she'd ever killed anyone. Logan had made sure of that, and –now- she was so glad that he had. At eighteen years old, Veronica doubted that she could have lived with that. Even so young, she had spent her life striving for justice – and sometimes a little vengeance- against the killers of the world. If she had become a killer, what then? Would she have had to hunt herself down? She doubted she'd have been able to handle the juxtaposition.

Besides, ultimately, she liked to know that criminals were behind bars. That they were living with what they'd done. Death was an easy out; who knew if they'd pay for what they did then? Why should the bad guy get to just die and escape the guilt and the endless days of actually _paying_ for what they did?

And sure, Cassidy had died anyway. He didn't pay for what he did – the cheque bounced, so to speak (not that he had). But Veronica had learned afterwards that it seemed he had paid an awful lot before the fact. Beaver had been the bad guy, and Cassidy had been the one to pay.

Did that excuse him? No. But still, it provided some comfort to the justice seeker in her soul. It also touched the marshmallow in her, made her feel sorry for the boy.

Veronica was _really _glad she hadn't been the one to kill him.

Especially now.

Sitting in the dark in her DC apartment, Veronica cuddled into herself on her rented couch. Everything in her life was rented these days – furniture, movies, apartment, even her time. The FBI took a lot out of a person, without a whole lot of monetary compensation. Or even the time to spend what little she made.

But she loved it. She loved the chase, the brain power required, being surrounded by like-minded, _intelligent_ people.

She loved the resources, which could make a small town PI weep.

She loved all of it.

She _had_ loved all of it.

Before the one particular chase. Before the stand-off at the end, with her heart pounding in her ears and the cold air ripping through her lungs. Before the boy refused to put down the gun he had trained on her partner, and before his blood ran warm over her hands as she checked for vitals that were no longer there, Veronica had loved it all.

Before she had to stand in a room of her superiors while they uttered the words "good kill," Veronica had loved it all.

Before she got home to her empty, rented apartment with no family, no Backup, and not even a favourite movie to curl up with, Veronica had loved it all.

Veronica picked up her cell phone (loaned out by the FBI; she didn't even own _that_) and dialled a once familiar number.

She knew it was late in Neptune. Even three hours behind DC, it was still late. But he'd be up.

There was no answer. If she thought about it, she hadn't really expected one. Once again, not because he'd be asleep, but because Logan did have caller ID. And though there'd been a time when he would always take her call, that was a long time ago.

Five years ago, in fact. Five years ago Logan had beaten up two different men to defend Veronica, the second one mere hours after she had thrown him unceremoniously out of her life.

She'd left a few days later for her internship in Virginia. Things became...awkward. They both always seemed to want to get back together, but one of them (usually Veronica) would balk, and things just never matched up. Eventually, they graduated, Veronica moved out to Virginia to attend Quantico for a brutal four months of training, and then made the short trip to DC for her first assignment.

They'd stayed friends, officially. Phone calls on birthdays, Christmas, things like that. He'd sent flowers when she got into the FBI, and again when she passed her training with flying colours. But Veronica knew that Logan still wanted more. Everyone back in Neptune told her so, and she could still hear it in his voice, read it in his emails. He had always worn his heart on his sleeve. But Veronica thought it was too late. He was in love with a memory; he didn't really know her anymore.

In any case, she didn't blame him when he didn't answer her call, whether at one am or two pm.

She had emailed her dad during the day, telling him about the shooting, making sure that he knew that it wasn't a big deal. That procedure said she had to see the shrink, but that she was fine. She knew that he had shot people before; she didn't want him to be ashamed of her. And it would be a shame to ruin all that grade A lying by calling him now.

So Veronica curled up on the couch and debated whether or not she should turn on the TV to see if anything other than infomercials were on.

She was just reaching for the remote when there was a knock on the door.

Deeply confused, she got up to answer it, making sure that her sidearm was on the table where she threw her keys (within easy reach, but out of sight).

She had expected to see a lot of people at her door: neighbours, murderers, her partner, that drunk guy who thought he lived there, even girl scouts (it was DC, some people too four _in the morning _very literally). She was _not _expecting the man standing there.

"Your dad called me."Logan explained, running a hand through his hair, as if unsure whether or not he should have come. "He told me what happened, and I got the first flight I could get a ticket for. The first flight out of LAX, that is, Neptune didn't have anything until tomorrow. That's why it took so long – I had to get to LA. Plus, your place is really hard to find. Your neighbour doesn't happen to be a minotaur, does he?"

"What? Logan. You really- I'm fine." Veronica sputtered, wondering if she was dreaming. She had found herself dreaming about this particular ex more often than she wanted to admit, even to herself.

"Veronica, I know you. I don't care how much we've hated each other, or how often and long we've been broken up, or how long it has been since you've really talked to me. I still know you. I know you're not fine. You act like you don't care, but you do. No one who cared as much as you did about catching a girl's real killer, or helping a boy find his mom when everyone – even he- knew that she had killed herself, could shoot a boy –even for the best reason- and not care. That girl couldn't just be fine." Veronica turned away at the mention of the shooting, but Logan reached out, turning her back to him. He left his hands on her shoulders, ducking his head down to look into her downturned eyes. "But you will be. Because no matter what went down today, no matter what you've been telling yourself while you sat here in the dark, you are _not_ a killer, Veronica. It doesn't matter that you killed someone. It won't matter if you kill a dozen people. Just killing someone doesn't make you a killer. You're not my dad. You're not Beaver. You're not Tim. You. Are. Not. A. Killer."

Veronica didn't know what it was. It could have been how long it had been since she'd slept, the whole 'shooting someone for the first time' thing, the shock of seeing Logan in her apartment, or the sheer sincerity that only Logan Echolls seemed to be able to achieve, but suddenly she felt like a four-year-old whose father was telling her that the monster under her bed wasn't real. It was an instant whoosh of relief, followed by a flood of all the emotion she'd been keeping herself from feeling. A flood she still didn't want to feel.

So, tears in her eyes, Veronica responded in the way that that four-year-old would. "Do you promise?" she whispered, needing to hear him say it again, to believe it was true so that she could love her job again.

"I promise, Ronnie. I swear; I swear it's true."Logan told her, pulling her into his arms as she cried openly, bringing her back to that roof, even though they were still standing there in the doorway of her rented apartment in her rented life.

The boy who she hadn't believed she could possibly still own picked her up and carried her inside, closing the door after them, and sat on the couch, where she curled into him instead of herself while her boy let her cry.

Somehow, after all the years apart, and all the lives ruined, all it took was a little bloodshed and he spanned the continent just to be with her, to tell her what she so desperately needed to hear.

Veronica Mars may have killed for the first time, but she was not a killer. Her life may be rented, but she still had the one thing she thought she'd lost so many years ago. Maybe he even knew her after all; maybe she wasn't as different as she thought she was. Maybe she wore her heart on her sleeve, too, at least for him.

Who knew what would happen tomorrow? But right now, Logan knew her, and she wasn't a killer. Sitting on her couch at four am, that was enough.


End file.
